Bridging the Ancient ✓

Chapter 29

Flitsea is exactly as I expected it to be. The smell of fish hit me miles before we even reached the town on the beach, as well as the salted air to match. Through the dark, looming summer clouds, birds squawk and search the trail for any fish left behind on transport. There was a few, but the people driving the wagons shooed those birds away—cussing underneath their breath about those sickly, white disease-carriers.

Thunder rumbles out towards the ocean as Renit and I make our way into the town. I notice one thing. Everything, from the buildings, to the cobble streets, to the clouds and the entire atmosphere—everything is grey. There is no color variation in flowers, no one has gone so far as to beautify this place.

The tall stone buildings close in on us as we ride down one of the bustling streets full of people moving this way and that—carrying baskets of fish in their arms or resting on their heads. They scatter like ants through the streets, walking from one side of the other to sell their goods. Someone loads baskets of cleaned fish into the back of a wagon, arguing with the driver about price of transport.

This is not the finery of the capital. The witches here wear tattered clothes and wide-brimmed hats to keep themselves protected form the sun when they're on the water. But there is none of that sun today and most of the citizens look relieved to be underneath the safe cover of the clouds.

I spot fish hanging from rope, larger than myself while others are merely bulky enough to fit in my palm. Those fish have already been gutted but, on the street, many are still in that process. The fisherman work quick with a knife, spilling the blood and guts of those fish onto the stone for the birds to eat into later. A black cat drags away one set of guts from the pile and disappears into an alley way.

Renit doesn't appear phased by the condition of this town. In fact, he seems to not care about it at all. These people are living their own way while the rest of the kingdom is so far out that transport of goods could take weeks at a time. This fishing town is on their own reserve.

The closest thing to Flitsea is the wall of mountains to the east, ending in a river out towards the ocean. Otherwise, Ducoria is weeks away and their only other form of civilization from here to there is Ashtomb Prison, nestled in the empty grasslands to the west.

We turn down one of the streets and head towards the docks; our inn room is located opposite of them. Already, the noise of the fishermen docking and removing their supplies and loading barrels onto the ships is a constant rumble in my ears. They're trying to do what they can before the storm hits. Every minute they spend away from the ocean is another they're losing money.

Fisherman work swiftly on the docks, walking up and down gangplanks with buckets and barrels and baskets. Each one is scruffy and dirty, like they've been on the water for weeks at a time and are just barely making their way back home.

A child runs down the street, directly into her father's arms. He's another one of those scruffy fishermen. The man hoists her into his arms, spinning and laughing as his daughter holds tight. That answers the question as to how long they're gone at a time. Days, weeks, months...how ever long they're stocked on food and water.

"I'll take the horses to the stables. You go check us in," Renit orders. He hands me a pouch of coins, heavy in my palm, and I take a quick glance around. Someone could have seen that and they'll know I have the money they might need.

Our inn is merely another stone building that blends in with the others. On two floors, the green shutters are the color of mold and water-stained from the storm that passed through a few days ago, followed by another that will hit tonight. The owner of the inn attempted to plant flower boxes in front of the building but they're wilting, the leaves are brown, and the petals have been ripped away by birds and squirrels.